


The Difference Between the Past and the Future

by Nia_Kantorka



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Don’t copy to another site, Established Relationship, Homophobic Language, M/M, Ravage Anthology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-18 16:57:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21280118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nia_Kantorka/pseuds/Nia_Kantorka
Summary: Hannibal and Will have carved out a beautiful life after their cliff dive. Someone from their shared past can't let things lie and sends bounty hunters after them. Hannibal's wrath, always a force to be reckoned with, knows no bounds when Will gets hurt.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 75
Collections: RAVAGE - An Infernal Hannibal Anthology





	The Difference Between the Past and the Future

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution for 'RAVAGE - An Infernal Hannibal Anthology' is for the fourth circle of Hell, Wrath (River Styx). Enjoy!
> 
> Thank you to @LoveCrimeBooks for having me among such an illustrious circle of talents - I'm still in awe about being a part of this anthology. ♥
> 
> Thanks a lot to my wonderful first reader, [Candamira](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Candamira/pseuds/Candamira), and to [ElectraRhodes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectraRhodes/pseuds/ElectraRhodes) and @ColleenDonald25 (on twitter) for their beta help. I highly appreciated everyone's help, especially Colleen's, who brushed up on my AE. Another 'thank you' goes to @Pandacambi. She generously shared her knowledge about the French Health Care Service with me. Cambi also told me how freely (actually not very) one can be in love with their own gender in the French Carribean. Much love, ladies! ♥
> 
> The beautiful art in the middle of this fic is part of my River Archon pledge for a full-body painting of one character, Hannibal here on his Triumph Thunderbird, by the marvellous [TheSeaVoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSeaVoices/pseuds/TheSeaVoices). I love him so much and am very happy to share him with you!

**The Difference Between the Past and the Future**

Our shins are touching, the tip of your fingers only a hair's breadth away from my chest. It is an early hour of the morning and my gaze unerringly finds your body sleeping next to mine. I'm content with admiring unabashedly how your skin and muscles, brain and bones have come together in your unique brand of beauty. You are everything I've ever wanted, Will, the one person right beside me. 

The nights are blissfully cooler than the days but it is still warm at night-time in Guadeloupe so we have lost our blue sheets sometime during sleep and are as naked as they come. Dawn is breaking; the first rays of light are bathing your tanned skin in an amber glow, bringing out valleys of maroon among the dark brown shadows of your wild curls. Most mornings the sight alone stirs my loins with its own heat and I wake you up with ministrations you haven't asked for but always reciprocate enthusiastically once you're lucid enough. 

My physical attraction to you doesn't always take me away like an avalanche though. For one, I'm too refined for a life solely lived in carnal desires. Then there's that brilliant brain of yours, your astute and ingenious mind, so fascinating and in its entirety never wholly predictable. 

Thus there are days like today where I muse about our past, and remember this time, like I said I would when we met in Florence bloodied and beaten in front of Botticelli's Primavera. We both said some truths that day and undeniably regretted them immediately. Otherwise, you wouldn't have had to drop your forgiveness and I would never have tried to eat your brain. I'm sure your cerebral gyri would have tasted delicious but it's far from sad that I will never know for sure.

You had two scabs at you left temple and one at your nasal bridge, when you told me that meeting me had altered your path in life. "_Before you and after you,_" you said. I failed to perceive for the longest moment how this holds true for me too.

Even though you had put it this bluntly before. At that forlorn night in my kitchen in Baltimore when you and Abigail were running out of lifeblood. But I'm afraid, mylimasis, in a way I was in as bad a condition as you and didn't listen while drowning in the tendrils of my wrath. Ever since I'd smelled Ms. Lounds' cloyingly rich perfume on you, unequivocally exposing the depth of your deception.

The only other time I had been consumed by rage had been when I realized what had happened to Mischa. Recalcitrantly, I had to accept it would take some time to bring her murderers my own brand of justice. 

By now you know the calmer I seem the more devastating my ire. When you are angry you get all sassy and brash, I on the other hand am perfectly composed in my piercing, cold rage. In my dreamscape we sometimes follow in Dante and Virgil's footsteps through all circles of hell and without a hitch we cross the river Styx, the epitome of wrath itself. No, the depth of my ire summoned once more would make hell freeze over and we could easily leave its black deadness behind, undisturbed by any gurgling souls. 

I shake off past furies and emerge from my vast and painstakingly built memory palace, getting aware of the cradling my hand has picked up sliding over the warm and smooth skin of your midriff. Your breath gets faster and your legs are stirring. Carefully, I shorten the last inches between us and bury my nose in the crook of your neck. Smiling, I inhale your unique scent of musky wood, sun-soaked earth, sea salt, and nearly faded dog hair of a stray you must have crossed paths with. Dogs or no dogs, it's a heady combination. 

"Mornin'", you mumble sleepily into my ear.

"Good morning, Will", I say before kissing you more awake.

"Mmh, best way to wake up."

"You sure? I know of more invigorating methods you rather enjoy."

"Ah, but you would have woken me up using one of them if you hadn't been otherwise occupied. You thought of past transgressions again? Yours? Or mine?"

"Ours."

"Uh-oh. What about?"

"The kitchen." I don't have to elaborate which kitchen I'm talking about. You tense imperceptibly in my arms, muscles and tendons straining under an onslaught of memories. "Relax, mylimasis. It was not about our doings per se, instead, I mused about how right you were that day. Our lives had already inevitably changed the moment we met. I was too furious and hurt to see it then, but can admit it now."

"So you're saying I was right all along," you say with that cheeky smile of yours that stretches your scar but lets you look incredibly young for a man in his early forties.

"My cunning boy," I say, changing my ministrations to tickles, "who sometimes still deserves to be punished."

You slacken in my arms and wiggle until you come up sitting on top of me. You have immobilized me by grabbing my wrists and now you're smiling even more brazenly down at me. Your eyes shine like the aquamarine sea rushing in the distance, and I have nothing to set against your handsome playfulness. You bend down and kiss me and in the wet slides and slips of tongues, under the warm weight of your body, everything bygone and hereafter loses its meaning -- the now encompassing in its sense of belonging. 

***

After a savory breakfast on the shadowy porch with view of the sea our ways separate for the day. You are looking into someone's boat motor as you wont to do, relying solely on word-of-mouth advertising. I work part-time for the Sécu as a hospital physician at the Centre Hospitalier Universitaire of Pointe-à-Pitre. It's the biggest hospital on the Butterfly Island and therefore the easiest way to become indistinct among its many other healthcare practitioners. 

The day passes by uneventfully for me and Josephine, my assigned nurse. We have been working together for about a year now and have developed a friendly working relationship where one brings coffee, in Josephine's case tea, and pastries for each other. 

Together we handle a flow of the usual patients, give vaccinations and treat sprained limbs, sunstrokes, stomach bugs or other tropical infections, until one last outpatient enters my office. 

Josephine looks remarkably sour when she follows after him into the room maybe due to a misogynistic or racist comment. Intolerance is the only thing causing fits of rage in her, a most amiable trait. Guadeloupe's inhabitants are a potpourri of ethnicities so I assume the man might be more a misogynist than racist, but one never knows. 

I nearly recoil because the man smells disgustingly, of too sweet putridity and hints of patchouli and incense. Upon seeing me, his morose expression gets even sulkier and he mumbles away under his breath about the faggot physician and how this is just his luck. Obviously he has heard about me and this combined with his demeanor sets my antennae quivering. 

Josephine's and my gaze lock over his brashness, but I don't turn a hair and use my most impervious face on him while examining a form of rash and superficial hair folliculitis he's developed due to the humid heat on the island. 

His name is Gaspard Morin. While filling out his patient chart I memorize his personal data, because whenever feasible I still eat the rude. 

***

Later that evening I tell you about Morin and his nauseating smell over an aromatic and well marinated Blaff served with baked zucchini and rice. Your expression turns thoughtful.

"Any distinct features?"

"Apart from him being Caucasian and having a rash on his arms and torso, no. He's about my height, has mousy brown hair, and brown eyes with a hue of ocher."

"Fits. There was a white man roaming about the docks early afternoon when any sensible soul would search for a shadowy place. I'm not sure he saw me as I was having leftover Accras for lunch and was watching him through the window below deck." 

"Meeting him earlier has rung my alarm bells and I fear it is not a happenstance if we both saw him the same day. He might be a bounty hunter, but even if not, he is a homophobe and according to Josephine a misogynist, so all about a very rude man." I seek your gaze and smile with a thrill of anticipation. "Don't you think it is about time to cook some more Boudin?"

"I'm game. But what about his blood? Is it safe enough to make black-pudding from it when he has some skin disease?"

"We should wait until he's taken all his antibiotics which will be in four and half days."

"Until then…"

"... we will observe him. I have a break of five days after my shift tomorrow."

"How convenient."

"Agreed. Morin couldn't have timed it better."

"We won't create any spectacle."

"Of course not, mylimasis. Our comfortable and felicitous life here is by no means to be jeopardized." 

"Let's snoop on him first. We can't have a huge family searching for their relative when he vanishes."

Plan conceived; I leave you at the cherry wooden table picking up our plates to put them into the sink and collecting dessert from the fridge. The Flan au Coco is as firm as it should be and tastes wonderfully fresh and brisk when served with mango juliennes. The ecstatic look it conjures on your face matches my satisfaction of enjoying a scrumptious meal in your company. Even after more than a year of togetherness it never gets old to wine and dine you. 

The Hurricane season and the rains have just ended and we are taking advantage of less wet evenings and nights and huddle up together on the outdoor couch. We have a Ti-Punch, enjoy the lush fragrances of hibiscus and lilies from the garden mix with the not far away surf and watch the night sky together. Our stars are undeniably the same now. Eridanus, river in the sky, shines as bright as Perseus does, pursuing his Andromeda in the firmament. When our kisses turn from lazy to passionate it's the easiest though to forget about the stars.

***

The next day Josephine and I have a strenuous time at the hospital because a tour bus crashed into a truck and the ER is too short-staffed for such a disaster so all departments, including our walk-in clinic, help them out. It's loud, hectic, and demanding work and my adrenaline reservoir is almost depleted when I'm finally able to leave for home. 

You must have finished your work on the boat early because I'm greeted by the delicious scent of grilled lobster when I enter our house. After a brief shower we meet at the dinner table. You serve the lobster with a yam and okra salad in spicy lemon sauce and cooled white wine.

"This is perfect, Will."

"Thank you. I wasn't sure if the sweet potato and sauce would match and am glad they're complementing each other so well."

"Did you add nutmeg and chili?"

"Yes and a skosh of ginger."

"It brings out the sour-sweetness of the salad. Well done."

"To be honest, I always hear you whispering into my ear, 'use the local spices, Will' from our first cooking lessons when trying my hand at fancier dishes. By the way, I think you should give me another one once we've finished our business with Morin. Maybe about the best way of making Boudin Créole, as that's another Antillean speciality."

"With pleasure, mylimasis."

***

We part with a kiss and a hug the next morning, with me nuzzling the hair-ends that cover your ears while breathing in the not-so atrocious aftershave I've gifted you with. 

You go out and observe Morin in person while I track him online from home. He's been on the island for round two months and at first appearance, he seems like an early-retired man from France. When I follow the trails of his money, I stumble over the first inconsistencies.

About four weeks ago he got a deposit of quarter million dollars and about half of the money was transferred to three other accounts. Going after those accounts and matching them with crossings of the French border I gather that those men have taken residency in Guadeloupe as well. Tracking the money's way backwards takes a while, but then I come across a name that makes me immediately abandon my desk and go after you. 

Silently swearing about wearing just a flimsy linen suit, I pick up the Croatian XDM 9mm Luger also known as Springfield Armory from its hideout in the study. Fastening it in my holster, I take two meat knives from our kitchen which joins the pistol in their designated loops. No matter what, knives will always be my weapons of choice. 

I text you but have little hope you're going to see it. For unfathomable reasons, you use your cell only once in a blue moon. It's aggravating on a normal day and almost drives me up the wall now. Let's hope you've been careful on your stakeout and didn't walk right into a trap. 

Putting on the helmet, I mount our Triumph Thunderbird and rush after you. It takes all my willpower to follow traffic laws and speed limits, but it wouldn't be helpful to our case if I drew the police's attention right now. 

After a long thirty-five minutes where I cross all of Grand-Terre, the eastern island of Guadeloupe's two main islands, I'm near Morin's house and gear down the bike. Slowly I circle the address while letting my eyes wander hidden behind the ventail in the hope of seeing you. No such luck. My annoyance makes room for high-alertness and I brave myself for four upset and wounded men, as I trust you to have wreaked havoc among them. You are my vivacious warrior after all and people tend to underestimate you greatly because of your angelic looks. I did so once too and this thought makes me smile.

Politely, I ring the bell to dispel any doubts about my visit before I open the door. The entrance area is littered with bloodstains. Inhaling deeply, it gladdens me to realize it is not yours -- I know the smell of your blood like I know my own. 

Reaching for the hilt of a knife I say, "Mr. Morin, it's very rude of you and your thugs to disturb our peaceful life here in Guadeloupe. Did your client give you our real names?

"Let me enlighten you nevertheless. You are holding hostage William Graham-Lecter, who is not only my beloved husband and the treasure of my existence but also the most intriguing profiler the FBI ever had. There isn't a crime he can't reconstruct in his head which comes in handy when he goes after bounty hunters like you. I'm afraid, not even my kills stayed a mystery for him. So let me introduce myself. I'm Hannibal Graham-Lecter and you may have heard about me derogatively put as Hannibal the Cannibal. I agree the media aren't what they were once, but at least this moniker hits the nail on the head..." 

While I ramble on about liver with fava beans, kidney pies, and hearty sausages I silently cross the floor and bring out the pistol to one and the knife to the other hand and pass the doors of an empty kitchen and guest bathroom. The living room door is ajar and I stop to take another deep breath. This time I can smell your blood and a shred of anger tightens my guts. There's also Morin's atrocious odor wafting through the air together with sweaty and bloodied hints of other men, traces of gunpowder, ropes, and the unmistakable scent of dog fur. 

Ah, that's how they captured you.

"Will, you made it too easy for them to get you. I promise here and now that you can keep this dog when we get out of here."

You wheeze out a throaty chortle, and I would be delighted if it wouldn't turn pained just a second later because someone has hit you. Listening to your suffering, I put the gun away and grab the second knife.

"Go to hell, Lecter! We'll get your faggot ass like we did this piece of shit who killed Touré and who's now tied up next to me. Only when we're done with the both of you we hand you over to our client."

"Ah yes, your employer. Please tell me, how is the highly esteemed Alana Verger-Bloom doing? Or may it be the case that she gave her orders by email and you have never met her in person?"

"What a windbag," another voice chimes in and a third scolds, "shut the fuck up, you idiots!"

One person with common sense I think, baring my teeth. A split second later I bang the door open and dive back against the wall. Three bullets fly by. Those scoundrels aren't totally incompetent as they are using silencers. I don't give them precious time to change positions or fire again, and barge into the room while throwing one knife right into Morin's eye and the other into another thugs' throat. Moving forward I go after the last one while the other two crumble down on the floor. 

Seeing you, standing on a rickety chair with a noose fastened around your neck, arms and legs bound tight and beaten bloody causes the trickle of anger in my guts to swell into a flood of wrath. It spreads, scorching through my veins like lava, blazes white-hot before my eyes, and catches me by surprise in its all-consuming intensity. For some long moments, I'm transfixed. For once not cool and aloof. But before I can lose my momentum our eyes meet, yours an ocean of trust and unconditional love, gleaming in hues of blue, and I regain my composure. Using my ire for you, for our conjoined lives as the ultimate incentive.

My gaze must have turned murderous because the last man, who was going to knock over the ramshackle chair you're standing on, stumbles over his own feet, and flees for the room's second door. 

You aren't in immediate danger anymore so I pursue the man and knock him out with the butt of the gun against his temple. I haul him back and let him slide next to his fellow gunmen. With a satisfyingly squelching sound I pull the knife out of Morin's eye socket and break his neck. The other one's dead by now. I cut the noose around your neck and then your other bonds. With a grim smile I take in your sight.

You have bleeding cuts and scratches at your wrists and hands, bruises around your neck, and probably more hidden under your rumpled clothes thanks to the lashing they gave you. My anger flares up again and my expression must speak volumes because you embrace me in a tight hug and croak, "I'm sorry."

"Over a dog, Will," I sigh, savoring the feel of your arms around me. 

"Well, if Alana gave them orders they knew how to draw us out. You, by your revulsion of the rude, and my greatest weakness -- apart from you -- are dogs." You shrug and your eyelashes sweep softly along my cheek. 

"Stop being adorable."

"You love me when I'm all cute."

"I love you no matter what you do."

"Should we ever get caught in a hopefully improbable future, nobody will believe me that Hannibal Graham-Lecter is a marshmallow deep down in his heart."

"Of course not, beloved, you are the only one who gets to see me like this. Still, I've nothing in common with the too sweet confectionary you are talking about."

You chuckle, but turn businesslike a second later when you take in the dead and not so dead bodies around us. "What are we going to do with this mess?"

"You go and lure the dog out from under the sofa and I'll see what can be done about the rest."

"This dog's too frightened to run away. Let me help you first."

And that's what we do. You realize Morin had a ship in the harbor of Moule and there's a rental car parked in the garage. It is a Renault Clio, a rather tiny car, but I've worked with less. Also, I've got you by my side. You help me folding the men like pretzels in the trunk and back of the car, the one still alive tied up and gagged, and then we scrub the house until it is spick and span and reeks less of blood and more of bleach. 

Afterwards you have some Madeleines for an early dinner which you found in one of the kitchen shelves looking for something edible. I would join you, but Morin's putrid smell still lingers faintly over that of the cleaning agents and both combined spoil my budding appetite. 

Our steady doings have elicited the dog, a small mongrel with a hint of terrier ancestry, from its hiding place. You speak with it in a soft murmur and it doesn't take more than fifteen minutes for it to cautiously nose at your outstretched fingers. It's fascinating to see how you avoid more than the barest contact and keep your body language unthreatening until the animal seeks your touch. Only then you gingerly touch the dog, scanning its scraggly body for injuries. 

"It's probably less banged up than you."

"She. But you are right, apart from her need for a healthy diet, a bath, and wormer she's okay and much better off than I feel right now."

"Shall I sink the ship and its designed freight alone?" I ask, a scant quiver coats my voice, revealing that I'm still not over the fright you gave me. 

"I'm going along with you. They weren't really into that beating. It was more of a time killer and you arrived earlier than they'd anticipated. Also I've survived worse. We both have." You grin encouragingly at me and add, "Let's get it over with."

"You take the dog and the car and I follow you on the bike."

We drive a few minutes until we reach the harbor where it takes us half an hour to locate the accursed boat as on an island all and sundry have ships. Eventually, we find it. It's nothing special, but will do. 

By now the sun has set and it's dinner time when we park the car nearest to the jetty which means it is thankfully devoid of people. Still, for appearance's sake, we help our guests, dead or not, sandwiched between us on board. It's a bit of a challenge to get the bike there too and afterwards your formidable endurance finally flags and you fall asleep on the next flat surface. 

I steer the boat like a pro out of Moule's basin. Not only have I given you cooking lessons, no, you've been teaching me sailing for a while now. I navigate us slowly southeast, giving the promontory of Pointe de Châteaux a wide berth and then westwards towards Pointe-à-Pitre, not the easiest task in the dark only guided by a waning moon and the instruments. 

When we're on a straight path to our destination and far away from Grand-Terre's south coast, I look after our prisoner. I remove his gag and let him have some water and once he's less tense I interrogate him like I've seen you do enough times. 

I come to know that Margot isn't aware of Alana's doings which is to be expected when only the latter has a bone to pick with me, less likely with us. The man also tells they have been searching for us for a while and that Alana was close to giving up the hunt. It's probably not so easy to deceive Margot Verger for more than a few weeks. 

After having pressed him for all his knowledge I leave him alone and take a look at you. That is an uncomfortable position you are crouched in on the bridge's lookout bench and even though we're far enough away from our hailing for you to rest a little longer I can't help myself and shake you awake gently from a sleeping position that's about to give you a crick in the back.

You're drowsy at first and ask, "Where are we?"

"Nearing Pointe-à-Pitre," I say, smug about my sailing skills.

That wakes you up and you hustle to make sure that we're not keeling over somewhere in the Caribbean. 

"Your faith in me is extraordinary, Will," I pout, but before long you crush me in a tight hug and cover me in kisses.

***

When I slowly wake up next to you a day and a half later I can hear the dog roaming through our garden where we left her when we stumbled home in the middle of last night. She's hopefully chasing after some reptile and not after the Guadeloupean mongoose or she's in for a surprise. Having found my own fierce and untamable specimen I know what I'm talking about. 

It's nearly noon but we've deserved some rest after our successful endeavor with those men Alana sent after us. It was a matter of perseverance and together we pushed through. When we reached Pointe-à-Pitre the night before we dropped the bike and hailed one of the rare cabs home. There you fed the dog while I collected food and stuff we would need later, and then returned to the harbor. Again we separated. I sailed our ship, Tisiphone, and you the hijacked boat back the way we came. We passed the islands southeast of Guadeloupe's main islands Terre-de-Bas and La Désirade on our way towards a rising sun and out into the Atlantic with its dark blue depths until the smell of decaying flesh became too much even for your nose. 

We killed the remaining goon together by draining him of most of his blood which we collected in bottles and stored them for later use in a cooler. At last we scuttled Morin's boat with the pickaxes we brought. It was slow going but we neither wanted to burn nor blast it. Once we were back home we fed the dog again and ate some sandwiches ourselves before we slept the sleep of the just. 

Unwilling to leave your side for long; I cross the sun-drenched hardwood floor of our blue and cream-colored bedroom after a short bathroom break and slide back into bed. 

Your whole torso, arms, and neck are covered in blue, green, and purple bruises and scrapes. It's advantageous the men responsible for it are dead otherwise I wouldn't be able to relax next to you like this. The rage that consumed me when you were in danger is still boiling under my skin.

Apparently, your safety is essential for my peace of mind. I'm weaker and stronger because of you and that's the difference between my past and our future. 

You have changed me, you've even altered the way I feel wrath. It's unlikely to imagine crossing hell's iced rivers or marshes with you in my dreams anymore. No, instead I can see us pass obstacles in the future and beyond that in our afterlife with a blaze, a conflagration lighted and fed by our love and passion with no mercy for any soul or demon standing in our way. With you by my side, neither devil nor god would be a match for us.

You stir and wince once you're awake enough to feel your body's soreness and I yearn to kiss and caress your ache away as if it were possible. Instead, I kiss your forehead and get up to bring you coffee, meds, and food. 

While preparing a late breakfast in our well-equipped kitchen I conjure the tableaus we could have created out of those men before my eyes if we needn't to stay under the authorities' radar. The lavish jungle growing on volcanoes and beautiful beaches of Guadeloupe would have been inspiration enough, but the watery grave they're in now might be pretty in its own way. Still, I should show you what they could have become in our shared memory palace.

Later our new dog Megaera, or Megs as you call her, greets us with a wagging tail. 

***

A week later Alana receives an anonymous small rectangular parcel in the hidden Verger chalet in the snow-covered Liechtenstein Alps. It bears inner-European stamps and contains a letter and a longish can. Dread fills her when she opens the envelope with trembling hands. She knows this ornate writing and her blood turns icier with every word she reads, matching the freezing weather outside. She shivers.

_Dear Alana,_

_We are well, no thanks to you. I once promised to come after you, and you beat me to that. Congrats on becoming as devious as you incriminated Will falsely and me righteously in your past life._

_Both of our circumstances have changed and Will has an unforeseen calming effect on me, however, let me tell you this: If you intrude on our shared lives again, we both will come after… your family. _

_We discussed it and Will agrees it would be a much greater punishment to go after your wife and son. So, for once in your life be wise, Alana, and cease your strenuous efforts of chasing after us. _

_How about you enjoy some Boudin instead? It is a wonderful French specialty we cooked solely with you in mind._

_Sincerely, _

_Hannibal Graham-Lecter_

***

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: There is really an endemic [mongoose](https://www.karaibes.com/locations-guadeloupe/guadeloupe/visite/faune-flore/faune-guadeloupe/) in Guadeloupe. Imagine my delight when I stumbled over it while doing lots of research on Butterfly Island.
> 
> Kudos and comments are love.


End file.
